David’s house is cold and smells like paper.  I think he is asleep beside me.  His body is scrunched up to the edge of the bed, which is a little too small for two people who aren’t cuddling.  I’ve given up on sleep and am now working up the courage to sneak out.  Last night was not great.  I had forgotten how awkward it is to have sex with someone you barely know.  Plus, it was like he was somewhere else, which reminded me of being with Sean, and it pretty much went downhill from there.  The entire experience felt forced, from me texting him after seeing Sean at the bar, to both of us pretending to fall asleep afterward.  I never did fall asleep.  

I feel around for my clothes in the dark, sweep them up quietly into my arms, and creep into the living room.  I dress quickly and reach around in my purse for my phone.  It’s a little after 4am.  I really need to pee, but I don’t want to risk waking David.  Should I leave a note?  Eh, I can send a text later.  I pull on my boots, realizing that my socks are still in his room.  Oh well.  I slip out and hurry across the frosty ground to my car.

A familiar feeling is rising up in me.  I should be tired, but instead my mind is starting to gallup about, listing all the things I can get done today.  Go to sleep, Mar.  Go home and go to sleep, says the wise me.  But I already know it’s a lost cause.  Since I slept at David’s, I didn’t take my medication last night and this is the first morning in over a week that I haven’t felt groggy and drugged.  I want to take advantage of it and tackle things on my to-do list!

Sleep deprivation is not good for people with bipolar disorder.  I know this, and yet I still sometimes play around with putting myself in a mild hypomanic state so I can enjoy the burst of energy and productivity that comes along with it, and also get a short reprieve from my ongoing depression.  I did this for years without realizing it.  On some level I had figured out that skipping sleep usually makes me more energetic and creative.  I used to push it to the point of becoming fully hypomanic, before I knew what that was, and end up doing things I would later regret, like quitting jobs, and having unprotected sex with strangers.  Nowadays, I use it to catch up on my chores, even though half the time I end up abandoning responsibility and instead sit for hours scribbling excitedly in my journal.  I once planned an entire utopian community in a day, detailing how they would distribute work and resources, and creating sketches for their planned city.  A week later, studying the drawings, I could hardly recall the wild enthusiasm I had for it, though at the time I was sure it contained the answers to all the world’s major problems.

I have to be careful, is the short of it.  I have a better understanding now of what hypomania is, and how to create just the right amount of it so I don’t lose too much time starting, and abandoning, outlandish projects.  Dr. Kim doesn’t know that I intentionally go hypomanic, and I’m sure she would disapprove.  Liz doesn’t know either.  But I doubt either of them understand what it’s like to be weighed down by depression for months or years at a time.  It’s like having a wet, heavy blanket draped around your shoulders.  You feel tired from the sag of it, and irritable because it’s uncomfortable and gets in the way.  It slows you down and is distracting.  Hypomania throws the blanket off and makes me feel like I can move and breathe again.  I need it from time to time.       

When I get home my phone dings.  It’s a text from David.  Where did you go?  I was hoping for breakfast.  I was hoping for breakfast… What does that mean?  Was he going to make me breakfast?  Or hoped I would make it for him?  Is breakfast a euphemism for more sex?  Did he mean going out for breakfast?  That sounds good.  When was the last time I took myself out to breakfast?  No, I should save my money.  But really, when was the last time I treated myself to a Portland weekend breakfast?  I take a shower and then speed clean my apartment.  

Next I call my friend Brenna, waking her up with a made up song.  I make up a lot of songs, especially when I have a reprieve from depression.  “Good morning little Brenna!  I hope you are all right.  We should go have breakfast ‘cause I haven’t slept all night!  And I had weird sex with a kind of weird guy, and you should hear the details.  Maybe after breakfast we can go hit up some retails.”  She laughs and we make a plan to meet.  Brenna is my most fun friend, and who I generally call when I am hypomanic because she is usually up for anything.  I consider inviting David, just because it would be weird and then Brenna could see who I’m talking about.  Should I?  My thumb hovers above my phone keyboard.  My wise brain wins out, this time, and I text David- Sorry!  I have a really busy day.  Thanks for last night!

Brenna and I arrive at the restaurant early enough to beat the long wait.  People in Portland will wait three hours for brunch sometimes.  Brenna dresses like she might be invited to a wild party at any moment.  Today she is wearing a white fur jacket that is cropped at the waist, tight yellow pants made out of something shiny, giant green earrings, and bright pink lipstick.  Sometimes, when I imagine myself on my deathbed, which I do at least once a day (how else are we supposed to know we’re making the right decisions?), I imagine I’ll regret that I didn’t live more spontaneously and without giving a damn what other people thought of me.  I don’t think Brenna will have that regret.     

We order a decadent breakfast and drink lots of coffee.  I fill Brenna in on the details of David and Sean, and listen to funny stories about her husband.  For as loud and spontaneous as she is, she has a very stable life. After breakfast we go to the thrift store, where I find a body-hugging white satin dress.  I should wear this for Sean.  I buy it. I’m feeling better and better as the day goes on.  I feel beautiful and witty.  Hypomania makes me shine in a shiny world.   We have more coffee.  I should do chores.  Isn’t that why I skipped sleep?  To catch up on my life?  But this is my life too, right?  I should have fun and play.  That’s also important.  My mind hop-skips about like frogs at a pond.  Brenna’s gregarious laugh keeps me and everyone around us tickled.  

In the early afternoon, I say goodbye to Brenna and then I impulsively go into the nail salon and ask for a pedicure.  I choose a pink as bright as Brenna’s lips.  Leaning back in the salon chair, I already know where this day is heading.  Almost as if bewitched, I pull out my phone and text Sean.  Hey.  That was weird running into you last night.  Can we get together and talk?  After a few minutes he texts back, What’s up?  

What is up, Mar?  Are you lonely?  Are you wanting to get back together?  Are you needing answers?  I close my eyes.  Images from the night before come spilling into my consciousness.  David’s hands crawling up my shirt while we kissed.  His fingers fumbling, tripping over themselves, as if unsure of what to do.  His closed eyes that would occasionally open partway, but with a dim, unfocused look to them.  At one point, he jammed his finger into my belly button and swirled it around, as if it was supposed to feel good.  The growing realization, as the night went on, that he was going through motions he’d learned somewhere else, that had nothing to do with the signals I was giving off.  Worse, they were the moves you see men doing to women in porn, the things women supposedly love, like having our hair grabbed and heads moved up and down while giving a blow job, or having our bodies flipped around willy-nilly.  By the time I realized I didn’t want to be there, we were already having sex.  Stupid Mar.  Why hadn’t I realized sooner?  And then I went ahead and finished the sex, even though I didn’t want it, because that’s what we’re supposed to do.  

And now I want to see Sean, because…?  Because I’ve never had a chance to really find out why he cheated on me, and seeing him last night, and having bad sex with David, has stirred something up in me that is restless and demanding.  I don’t want to be doomed to a life of mediocre internet dates and bad porn sex.  Sean and I had something good, I thought, so what happened?  I mean, I knew we were unhappy for a while, but to cheat on me?  I need to hear Sean’s answer because I need hope for men in general.  There has to be something that went wrong, that can be avoided.  It can’t just be because he is a schmuck.  That would mean that I don’t know how to distinguish decent men from schmucks.  Or worse, that all men are schmucks.

I text back, Nothing.  I just would really like to talk.  As friends.  Maybe dinner before your date?  I’m assuming he has a date because it’s Saturday night.  This way he won’t think that I’m jealous.  I am a little jealous.  I text, My treat.  He texts back, Sure.  I need to hear him out.  I just hope he’s willing to talk.

Coffee helps keep the hypomania going.  So does skipping meals.  I go to a cafe and write in my journal for two hours, then go home to get ready.  I really do it up.  I shower, shave, fix my hair and makeup, and put on the new dress, even though it smells like the inside of an old trunk.  Then, so I don’t look like I’m trying too hard, I throw a sweater over the dress.  I leave my messy apartment with a stab of regret.  I didn’t do anything productive today.  

As I park in front of the restaurant, a sour twinge rolls through me, revealing a dark patch of abysmal grief in its wake.  It’s gone in a moment, but it leaves me on guard because I know what it is—the stirring of the depression that waits on the other side of this hypomania I’ve been riding all day.  If I’m not careful, a great hand will reach up and pull me down into gloom and eventual paralysis.  I know I’m playing with fire by not sleeping.  I need to sleep tonight, as much as it sounds fun to stay up again.   

Sean is at the bar when I walk in, texting on his phone.  He looks handsome, apart from the moustache.  I never did learn to tell his clothes apart.  Always some version of slacks and plaid.  “You look nice!” he says, sounding surprised.  

“Thanks.  So do you.  Thank you for meeting me.”  I feel stiff and apologetic.  

After ordering, we spend a little time catching up.  Not much has changed for either of us, apart from our relationship status.  

“Were you on a date last night?” I blurt out, after he’s finished updating me on his leaky bathtub.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Oh.  She was pretty.  So you know her from school?”

“From OSU.”

“OK.  What happened to Angela?”

He sighs and leans back.  “Is this what you came to talk about?”  

I chose a little Italian restaurant that I discovered on a date a couple months ago.  The date didn’t lead to anything other than the discovery of a great restaurant.  It’s small, and the tables are close together, so I’m vaguely self conscious asking him these questions.  It doesn’t seem like anyone is listening, though I definitely would if I overheard this conversation.  

“Sort of.  I mean, you ended our relationship to be with her and now you’re not even with her?  Why?”

“I didn’t end our relationship to be with her.  It just happened, Mar.  It didn’t mean anything.”

“How can it not mean anything?  We were together for a year!”

“Haven’t you ever had sex that didn’t mean anything?”

My mind flashes to last night.  “Of course.  But not while I was supposedly in love with someone else.”

“We weren’t in love anymore though, were we?” he says. 

I’m too surprised to say anything.  Is it possible I was in love with Sean, but he wasn’t in love with me?  How does that work?  Did he ever love me?  The answer comes like a sack of rocks to my gut.  No.  He didn’t ever love me.  It’s weird that I can see this now, but couldn’t see it then.  Who was deceiving me?  Was it Sean, or myself?  

All I can manage to say is “Wow.”  I stir my pasta.  When were Sean and I happy?  Were we happy at the beginning?  “Did you ever love me?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes.  “Of course I loved you.  What kind of question is that?”

“When?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Mar!  In the beginning.”

“Do you remember falling in love?” I ask.

“No.  I remember really liking you, and trying to get you to go out with me.”  Our server stops by to deliver Sean’s glass of wine.  Sean takes a sip and smiles at me.  “I remember our first date.”

I smile back.  “It was a good first date.”

“It was a good first date.  I remember how hot you looked in those jeans, and how your hair smelled.”

“You do?”  I don’t remember what he was wearing, or any smells.

“Yep.  And I remember being surprised when you kissed me.”

I laugh.  “I wasn’t sure I was going to.”

“I know!  You had already rejected me.”

“We weren’t on a date when you tried to kiss me before.  We were at work.”  Sean and I met when I started working as a cocktail waitress at the restaurant where he tends bar.  Angela started working there a year later.

“Well, I wasn’t totally convinced you liked me,” he says.

“Even though I went on a date with you?”

“What can I say?  It messes with a guy’s head when he gets rejected.”

“I didn’t reject you!  I just wasn’t ready to kiss you yet.  But then, when we were on a date…and it was a good date.  You had me over and cooked a delicious dinner for me.  Then I was ready to kiss you.”

“Oh, so that’s what it takes?” he teases.  “Cooking for you?  You trade kisses for food?”

There is a nice banter happening between us.  It almost feels like flirting.  I have an urge to reach across the table and hold his hand, but I refrain.  Instead I laugh and nod my head yes.

“I was pretty sure you would kiss me,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.  But I had a backup plan for if you didn’t.”

“A backup plan?  What do you mean?”  Something about this feels eerily familiar. 

“You know!  Pretty sure I already told you.”  He pauses and looks at my confused expression.  “OK, the backup plan.  I was going to try and kiss you again on our date.  Invite you over, cook you a nice meal, and make my move.”  He slides his hand forward as though sliding into home base.  “But, if you rejected me again, I was going to leave the room and come back, naked, and masturbate in front of you.”  

I feel like the color has drained from my entire body.  The sound in the restaurant becomes instantly muffled and far away.  I can only assume everyone’s heads have turned to our table.  I stare down at my pasta—little curled-up tubes dotted in red.  Has he told me this before?  Why wouldn’t I remember this?  I look back up at him.  He is smiling and swirling the wine in his glass, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

“Why would you do that?” I ask.

“Do what?  The backup plan?”  He waits for me to nod my head yes.  “Because then you would know how much I liked you!”

“First of all, I am really glad you didn’t do that because it would not have shown me that you liked me.  It would have scared me, and I would have left your house and not come back.  Second, why on earth would you think that would show somebody you like them?”

“Is this bothering you?” he asks.  “You didn’t seem to care last time I told you.”

“I don’t remember hearing this before,” I say.  But that’s not exactly true.  Some faint memory of this conversation is stirring awake deep in my brain.  But how it ended up way down there, I’m not sure.  “Do you remember what I said when you told me?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The memory surfaces and spins around for me.  Yes, I remember now.  We were lying in bed, late at night, reminiscing about how we’d gotten together.  It was a few months into our relationship and I was newly in love.  Happy, shiny, adoring of everything Sean did.  We had just had sex and our bodies were close, the sheets damp.  I was laughing as Sean told me the story of trying to kiss me at work, of how I had turned away and shoved a basket of bread into his hands before running off, embarrassed.  Then he had told me of his backup plan, of emerging naked to masturbate in front of me if I didn’t want to kiss him again.  At the time, the information was so at odds with the person I was falling in love with, I didn’t know what to do with it.  I remember lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this meant I had to break up with him.  And then, in the middle of wondering, I rolled over and fell asleep, probably burying the entire thing into my subconscious mind so I wouldn’t have to make that decision.

But now, sitting across from him and knowing that I’m no longer in love with him, the story feels sinister.  I still can’t reconcile his smug look with what he’s just told me.  I know I’m missing something important.

“Sean, do you think I would have liked it if you did that?”

“What do you mean?  I masturbated in front of you plenty of times.”

“But that was different.”

“How so?” he asks.

“That was consensual.  We were in a relationship.  It’s very different from pulling out your dick and masturbating in front of someone who hasn’t even kissed you.”  Especially if she’s just rejected you, I think.  

“I don’t know, Mar.  Yeah, I thought you would like it.  But who cares?  I never did it, and this is all so much water under the bridge.”

“You’re right.  It’s stupid.  I don’t even know how we got talking about it.”  But the cold feeling won’t leave me.  Whatever feelings of affection I’ve held onto for Sean have vanished.  I don’t even care anymore about why he cheated on me.  I just want this dinner to end.  

I reach down and pull my cell phone from my purse to look at the time.  “It’s getting late.  I have to go get Binky.”  I’m not really picking up Binky tonight, but I need a solid excuse.

“OK.”  He drains the wine from his glass and signals the server for the check.  

I look down at my lap, at the white dress I bought in hopes this dinner would lead to some kind of renewed interest.  Not that I wanted to get back together with Sean, but I wanted to feel like he still found me attractive.  I suddenly realize that I have copied Ashley’s look from the night before.  That’s why the white dress appealed to me.  I feel stupid and want to throw it in the trash.

Out on the sidewalk, Sean opens his arms to give me a hug.  I lean in and hug him.

“Thought you might reject me again,” he jokes.  

I force myself to smile.  “Bye,” I say.  And I really mean it.  I don’t care if I ever see Sean again.  Guess there’s the closure I wanted. 

I get in my car and drive to Liz’s.  The great hand is coming up for me.  I can feel it below, cold and grey.  I am going to regret this whole day, and last night, too.  

After Liz puts Binky to bed I tell her everything, except the part about cultivating the high of hypomania all day.  I tell her about David, and then I tell her about Sean.  She looks as stunned as I feel.  

“Why would he think masturbating in front of you would show you that he liked you?  Right after you refused to kiss him?”  She asks for the third time.

All I can do is shake my head in wonder.  “I keep thinking of Louis C.K.”

Liz shudders.

“And all these stories from the Me Too movement” I say.  “This is a common thing, right?  You hear about these executives calling women into their offices and masturbating in front of them?  Do you think they actually think the women are going to like it?”

“I’ve never thought about that before.  I’ve always assumed men do this kind of thing out of power and aggression.  And I still think that.  I think Sean wanted to make you feel intimidated.”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I think he actually thought I would like it, though.  Like it would make me tear my clothes off and have sex with him.”

“Maybe that’s their biggest fantasy, that a woman will come into the room without any clothes on and masturbate in front of them, so they just assume we will love it, too.”

“Poor men,” I say.  “If that’s true, they really don’t understand women.”

It’s late and I should sleep, even though I don’t feel tired.  Liz offers me her couch, but I need to go home and take my medicine.  I feel so sad on the drive home.  I had been sad for the loss of my relationship with Sean, but now I feel a deeper sadness as I realize that the relationship I miss never existed.  Ever since I got my diagnosis of bipolar disorder, I’ve felt an uneasiness when I look at my past.  I wonder how much of what I did was because of my condition, and what has been me versus the bipolar, and if they’re even possible to separate.  I’ve wondered if I can trust my feelings anymore, if they’re possibly stemming from faulty brain chemistry.  Now I wonder if I can trust my perceptions at all.  How did I not see this side of Sean all that time?  Or, worse, did I see it and just willfully ignore it?

I get home, take my quetiapine, and get into bed.  The nice thing about this medicine is it makes me fall asleep.  I look over at my gratitude journal.  I have no reason to feel gratitude today.  All I feel is regret and shame.  I go to plug my phone in and see I have a bunch of unread texts.

Liz- Sweet dreams my love.  I forgot to invite you to Binky’s talent show next Friday.  I’ll call you tomorrow.

Brenna- Sooooo much fun with you today!  Did you end up seeing Sean?  What happened????  Call me!!!

David- Hope you had an awesome day!  There’s a documentary I want you to watch.  Want to come over tomorrow?

Sean- That got weird at the end.  Can you call me?

Mom- Hi Marty!  I tried calling you several times today.  Call me when you get a chance, ok? Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx kiss kiss kiss!

Ugh.  I want the world to go away.  I know I have people who love me.  I know these situations with David and Sean will pass.  I know I have a good job and generally like my life.  But right now I can’t feel any of that.  Right now the grey hand is curling around me and I can feel myself folding up into it.  I know things could be worse.  But right now, it’s hard for me to see.

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